by Edwin Dasso
When he reached the caddy shack, he remembered their reason for driving into Detroit in the first place, and debated leaving the videos for someone to find. Controlling who saw the videos would insure he maintained power over the situation. She’d put two discs, the evidence video duplicate and the one he’d made, in a brown paper lunch bag. There was something so childish and unprofessional about the bag that even Paul felt embarrassed for her. What was the proper receptacle to transport porn videos in anyway? He didn’t notice the state police car driving slowly by toward the bridge, back to Detroit.
Moods swinging between exaltation and despair, Paul dealt with the anxiety of possibly getting caught by preparing for success. Working around the clock after Saturday to cover his tracks, the apartment was put in pristine condition, and anything that might cause him or his mother embarrassment if found was destroyed. He spent hours Saturday night burning magazines, photos and other incriminating items in the barbeque grill. His winter coat stained with Cindy’s blood and the clothes he wore that day suffered the same fate after he cut the fabric up into four-inch squares. The size thirteen Nikes he wore to Belle Isle, forgotten, were on the mud-mat at his mother’s back door.
Early Sunday morning, before sunrise, he went back to Cindy’s cottage. The place was disgusting, a confusing conglomeration of things, neatly arranged but piled on every surface. He never saw so much clutter. It grated on his nerves; everything about her was so superficial. Groomed to perfection, her clothes were immaculate, shoes polished. It appeared she lived her life at home the same way she did at work, like a sloth. The idea that she’d leave her home in such a state of disarray was beyond comprehension.
“Maybe there was something wrong with her,” he said as he walked from room to room.
The bedroom was the worst. Clothes folded on the bed left a narrow strip that must have been where she slept. Hundreds of pairs of shoes cluttered the floor, although he gave her credit for trying to keep them organized. He wondered why she didn’t buy shoe racks. Glancing in the bathroom, he saw her makeup arranged all over the counter. Walking in, he noticed she had tried to keep the surfaces clean. Jars and tubes of color, small squares of powdered eye shadow in hundreds of shades caught his eye. Leaning up against the counter and looking at his eyelids in the mirror, he chose a bright peach color and dug through the piles for a small application brush. With a trembling hand, he gently brushed across the pad of color, and then repeated the movement on his lids. Standing back, he looked in the mirror and smiled. It completely changed his look, from pale and sickly to vibrant and healthy. Pocketing the shadow and the brush, he walked out through the living room and spotted Cindy’s laptop. He slid it into a canvas bag and later would comb through the files.
Looking for something incriminating, Paul didn’t know if Becker had revealed anything about him to Cindy, and he wasn’t taking any chances. Used for bargain shopping and emailing her girlfriends, the evidence a cache of silly narrative, more appropriate for a group of teens than a grown woman who was screwing her boss. He went through her applications one by one and finally arrived at Word. There were hundreds of documents arranged by date as a sort of diary. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said out loud. His anger escalated, any remorse he’d felt after shooting her disappeared when Paul began to read what she’d written about him. The first entry was made shortly after she was hired by Becker.
I love everything about my new job, except for Paul, the maintenance man. He reminds me of every creepy, blue-collar worker satirized on sitcoms. I wonder if he has a police record.
A few more stray mentions and then the final insult written just a few weeks ago. Valarie is coming to Thanksgiving dinner at the club as my date tonight. I plan to introduce her to Paul. Maybe they can make use of each other and stay out of my hair. Later, the computer would prove to be the most difficult item to get rid of, the hard drive next to impossible to remove. The final solution: a crow bar to pry the back of the laptop off and then, once he removed the drive, a sledgehammer. He beat the thing to smithereens, separating the bits into ten small bags that he distributed to ten different dumpsters around Grand Rapids.
The only thing he saved was the video disc of Cindy Caldwell and James Becker. If Paul was arrested, Becker was going down with him. He’d given the disc, already in an addressed mailing envelope, to his mother with instructions to deliver it to his favorite reporter at the local news station if anything were to happen to him. Lily was afraid for him, but when she inquired, he explained he was having a problem at work.
Paul was sure there was no other evidence besides Cindy’s body. He didn’t think of the footprints he’d left in the snow. Or Valarie. He assumed she’d never tell; she was there, almost an accessory to murder. The maps on his GPS might tell a story, so he took the sledgehammer to it, too.
After he dropped Valarie off at her parents’ house Saturday afternoon, they didn’t speak to each other again. There was no need. He had to work Saturday night during the wedding reception at the club. Standing off to the side out of view, he watched the guests in their dress-up clothes milling around the banquet hall, dancing to the bad band and eating lukewarm food while he pretended concern that Cindy was a no-show. Biting his tongue, he was so nervous, afraid he would slip and say something about the events of the day.
He played up the masquerade that he was stupid for the cops when they’d interviewed him on Monday. The detective spoke slowly, repeating everything back to him. Paul lied about riding a bike…it was a perfect foible to his imbecilic persona. Of course he’d ride a bike, like someone with a suspended driver’s license would after getting a DUI. It was part of the act.
As the police drew close, Paul could see the frightening expressions on their faces, and the hair on his arms stood up. Deny it to the end, he thought, but then, conflicting, It was an accident; just tell the truth.
“This is Paul,” James Becker said, pointing at him with his fat finger, without the “Hey, Paul!” he usually said before leading him off to the privacy of his office.
“Paul Cummings, you are under arrest for the murder of Cynthia Caldwell.” One cop read him his rights, while the other helped Paul up by grasping his elbow. When he was standing, the cop pulled his hands behind his back to apply cuffs. Heat stung his groin, and with bowels rumbling, he was afraid he’d pee and shit himself. A quick pat down revealed he was carrying a concealed weapon, a 22. But a check of his wallet showed that he was also telling the truth; he had a permit.
“It was an accident,” Paul called out. “An accident. I was trying to stop Cindy from giving a video of her blowing Mr. Becker to a cop. That’s all. She struggled, and my gun went off.” No one spoke as they walked to the waiting car. It was freezing outside, but they didn’t offer to get his coat. As the car pulled away from the building, Paul turned to look out the window and saw Mr. Becker standing under the decorated portico, looking very grim.
28
Albert was getting ready for Christmas breakfast when the phone rang.
“It’s Felix Mendoza, from ballistics.”
“Felix, I hope you have something good to tell me.” It had been three days since Albert dropped off Fred Cooper’s service pistol.
“Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint you, Albert. Your boy cleaned his gun.”
Albert didn’t say anything right away, remembering the underlying smell of gun cleaning fluid in Fred Cooper’s messy apartment. He was counting on ballistics to solve the question he had: whose gun shot Cynthia Caldwell?
“Paul Cummings had a permit to carry a 22, which he was wearing when they picked him up. The bullet found among the hollow-point fragments appeared to be fired from Paul Cummings’ gun. It was consistent with the graze wound on Cynthia’s arm and the hole shot through her coat sleeve.
“The bullets you brought in with the cop’s gun are hollow-point and could be the same bullets the fragments are from. But we have to have an intact bullet to be sure it’s from this gun. We have the back half,
but it’s not enough.”
Albert couldn’t speak. He wanted to make Felix repeat what he’d just said. He gulped. “Thanks for nothing, Felix,” Albert said. He heard a cackle on the other end.
“Yeah, well, that’s what they pay me the big bucks for, buddy. Keep looking.”
“Yeah, I will.” Albert ended the call and dialed Jill’s number.
“I heard from ballistics,” he said.
“I’m afraid to ask,” she replied.
“Paul Cummings’ gun didn’t kill Cynthia. Fred’s probably did, but we can’t prove it. So we got nuttin’.”
Jill plunked down on the edge of the couch.
“You need to impound his patrol car.”
“What good will that do? He’s already admitted he was here on Saturday,” Albert replied.
“His tracking device will show if he was on Belle Isle,” she said. “Why’s it taking so long to get his cell phone records?”
Albert stood up again, stretching. “He couldn’t have been that stupid.”
Jill turned her back to look out the window. She felt disloyal, but worse, she felt vindictive. “Yes, he could have been.”
“I’m going to the precinct and start the process to get his car. Do you want to go with me?”
“I better stay here,” Jill said sadly. “If Sanders knows I’m talking to you, it can jeopardize all of your work.”
29
Fred Cooper felt well enough to return to work on Christmas Day after four days of what he called the flu, secretly knowing it was having the shit scared out of him. He’d returned the videos of Jill’s aunt to the evidence locker at the barracks, no longer feeling responsible for protecting her family from embarrassment. Never intending on selling copies, he was transferring the videos from tape to DVDs for himself. He got rid of the duplicating machine and the DVDs. He had not admitted to Albert that he’d gone to Detroit expecting Jill to have the videos Cindy had stolen from him in her possession. When they’d fought about it Saturday morning, Cindy said outright she was going to tell Jill. He’d come out of the shower, and she was already dressed, sitting on the edge of his couch with the DVD player on, watching as Sophia’s murderer, Dan Asher looked in the camera, adjusting its position.
“Cindy, didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s bad manners to go through another person’s stuff?”
“I can’t believe you made copies of this garbage. No one wants to look at it, Fred,” she said. “It’s not even enticing. I wonder what your girlfriend would think if she found out you were going to sell porn videos of her aunt.”
“Who said anything about selling them?”
She laughed, but then she began to cry. “Why make copies, then? To give as Christmas gifts? I can’t believe I chose to get involved with you again. My self-respect must be in the toilet.” Putting the videos down, she went for her coat, shrugging it on.
“I’m going into Detroit if anyone asks.”
He followed her to the door, not certain how much force he should use with her and deciding it was better just to let her go, to beg her to stay, but not to try to restrain her, not realizing she’d been taking tapes from his apartment for weeks.
After Fred left Jill’s that Saturday morning, he called Cindy’s cell phone.
“I’m in Detroit,” he said. “I see you haven’t been to my friend’s place yet.”
“So you’ve already been there? Did you fuck her?” she said, screaming.
“Come on, Cindy, I don’t have time for this. Where are you? I want to get those videos back to the evidence locker.”
“You’re going to sell them,” she repeated, crying.
“I promise you, I won’t. I was never going to sell them. No one wants to watch two old people doing it. Where are you?”
“Belle Isle, waiting for Valarie.” She blew her nose. Digging through her purse for a lipstick, she pulled the visor down to look in the mirror.
“You told your sister?” Fred asked, shocked. “Why? Who else did you tell?”
Cindy thought of James Becker but kept quiet about him.
“I didn’t tell her. I got lost, and she told me to wait here for her. We’re having a girls’ day in the city,” she lied.
“Stay where you’re at, and I’ll be right there,” Fred said and hung up. He pulled away from Jill’s apartment building. If he could get to Cindy before Valarie Caldwell did, everything would be okay. He could get the videos, and she could have her day in the city. He’d have to make amends to Jill sometime, but not right now.
Not sure where the bridge to Belle Isle was, he made several wrong turns, driving in a circle before he found the bridge. Not realizing how big the island was, he sent a text to Cindy’s phone to find out where she was.
But he was too late. Cindy never answered his text message, and by the time he found his way to the caddy shack, there was another car parked next to her car. Fred recognized the red Camaro as belonging to a jerk who worked with Cindy. He backed up and pulled behind a stand of trees along the road. Creeping along the edge of the road behind the trees, he watched Paul Cummings pull Cindy from the car. Fred ran toward them, trying to stay out of sight, watching them struggle behind the caddy shack. Paul’s gun flashed, and Fred reacted, aiming for the man’s hand. Fred pulled the trigger, but Cindy moved, and the bullet hit her instead; he saw her pop up a little and fall against the man, who screamed with a high-pitched scream. Fred gasped at the same time, ducking down, his impulse to help. Instead, he ran back to his car, lunacy giving way to common sense.
“What’d you do, Fred? What’d you do?” Memories of his father’s voice chased him, a little boy with a dirty face who’d stolen cookies from the local bakery and outrun the cops; echoes of his mother clucking her tongue, tapping her foot.
“That boy will never amount to anything. He needs a lickin’ with one of my wooden spoons.” The cops took an interest in Fred, his schoolmates in awe of the attention he was getting.
Fred held his breath when the candidate team who gathered information about him for the application to the state academy came to the house to interview his mother and father. He prayed their stupidity wouldn’t keep him out.
How would his poor father stand up to the news that his only son shot a girl? Worse, a girl he was dating, who’d been by the house to meet the family. By the time he made it back to Grand Rapids, he was physically sick. With a last effort, he boxed up the evidence tapes and took them to the barracks, fully expecting to get a suspension or a reprimand the following week, but all he cared about now was getting into bed. His curiosity was grating on him; he wanted to call the hospital and make inquiries about Cindy, praying she was alive, but he resisted. The risk of exposure outweighed any real concern; he was only curious. Instead, he took his gun apart, the smell of cleaning fluid permeating the apartment.
30
On Christmas Day, James Becker, soon to be former general manager of Griswold Country Club, former councilman elect and, he was sure, former husband of Loretta, was driving around the Grand Rapids neighborhood where he’d grown up. Block after block of post-war bungalows in varying degrees of disrepair or restoration stood shoulder to shoulder. He remembered his childhood dream of becoming a pro golfer, finally accepting that he had a head for business rather than a body for sports. Managing a country club was the next best thing. The prestige, rubbing shoulders with famous golfers and their wealthy entourage; it was heady stuff.
He’d been happily married for twenty-five years to his childhood sweetheart. They had three beautiful, intelligent children. His own childhood had been less than perfect; his father had been wounded in Korea, the memory of his struggle to exist in their tiny home without wheelchair access a powerful motivator to do better than his parents had. He avoided the draft, dodging Vietnam, and married Loretta as soon as they found jobs after college. Loretta taught elementary school, receiving multiple awards over the years from the school district for her achievements in the classroom. They both taught Sunday school
and were active in various philanthropic programs in the community.
Now this, the exposure of a stupid, selfish, insignificant act, which threatened to ruin his life. A reporter had already been in contact, and James knew it wasn’t just to talk about Paul. He’d mentioned a “video” in the message he left on James’s country club office phone. He called the reporter back out of curiosity, wanting to know what was in the video.
“Well, sir, I can tell you that it’s pretty explicit,” the reporter said. “The camera positioned to the right of your chair leaves little to the imagination. It shows you receiving oral sex and having intercourse.”
“Thank you,” James said. “But it wasn’t me. It was someone else using my office.”
As he sat in the car in front of his childhood home, he realized he needed to make a decision now. Should he confess the affair to Loretta, give her a chance to escape to her mother’s place in the Allegan forest until the flurry died down or stand by him when the news hit, or should he just let things unfold, let her be taken by surprise like the rest of the world? He imagined what it would be like, sitting in their familiar places in the den: Loretta at the end of the couch with her counted-cross stitch in her hand, a magnifying glass around her neck, and her feet up on a small footstool; Becker in his recliner after eating a satisfying meal, sleeping most of the evening away.
He went through the scenario in his head—the news coming on, mentioning his name and the country club, bringing notoriety and shame to the old place. Although he hadn’t seen the video himself, he thought it might be grainy, black and white. He didn’t imagine the Technicolor it actually was, his left hand with wedding ring unmistakably identifying him. Trying to remember exactly what the view was behind his desk, he vividly remembered sitting in his swivel chair with legs spread apart, dick in Cindy’s mouth, asking her to squeeze his balls right before he came. Or the worst, his pants down around his ankles and she sitting on his lap. She had such a tight little ass, and the memory of her sliding over his penis fresh in his mind gave him an erection. It soon withered away when he thought of his chubby wife, Loretta, who’d been complaining for ten years that they no longer had sex.
